


Fever Dreams

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel (Sort of), F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Four times the denizens of Winterfell see visions of a younger Jaime Lannister, and one time Jaime sees a vision of his future.Really, this writing exercise is just an excuse for Brienne to finally fight Jaime in his prime, and for Bronn to say "You've got blood on your pretty white cloak".





	Fever Dreams

1.

Tyrion was the first one to realize that something was wrong. He’d been returning to his chambers from an evening drinking in the great hall – there was little else to do during the long, terrible nights but drink – when he smelled the sea and heard a child laughing. Turning the corner, he felt a solid weight barrel into him and grabbed hold of a young boy, tall and straight and golden haired with bright, reckless green eyes – 

“Tyrion!” the boy said, smiling widely. And then, smile vanishing – “Who gave you that scar?”

** 

“Another Lannister cousin, perhaps?” King Jon asked, bewildered. “You have quite a few of them, I understand.”

“Trust me to know my own brother, your Grace,” Tyrion said dryly. “It’s Jaime. Gods know how, or why.”

Two nights past, during a particularly brutal attack, wights had broken through the castle walls and poured into the godswood. Jaime had fought desperately to protect young Bran Stark, cradled in the roots of the heart tree, but had been severely wounded; even now, he lay pale and close to death in the infirmary. 

And yet his younger self, perhaps eleven years old, is seated huddled by the fire in a fur cloak, talking excitedly to Brienne. 

“Perhaps,” Samwell Tarly said, “it’s something to do with the godswood. Ser Jaime did bleed terribly all over the heart tree.” 

**

But in the morning young Jaime was gone, vanished like a figment of Tyrion’s imagination. 

**

2\. 

The next time it happened, Bronn lost his way in a tangled maze of dark stone corridors, dimly lit by smoking torches. In the distance, he could hear bells tolling and distant screams, and somewhere, someone was shouting “Burn them all!” 

Gradually the dark stone corridors gave way to wider halls that he recognized from the Red Keep, leading the way to the throne room. The great doors were wide open, with no one standing outside to guard them; the shouting was coming from inside, he realized, and a chill ran down his spine. 

He was just in time to watch the lone Kingsguard ascend the steps to the dais, draw his sword and plunge it into the Mad King’s back, before slitting his throat and silencing his gurgling screams and shouts forever.

There was a moment of silence, and then –

“You’ve got blood on your pretty white cloak,” Bronn said. 

The trailing edge of the white knight’s heavy cloak had fallen into a puddle of the king’s blood, and the pure white wool was stained ugly crimson.

Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, who would forever be known after this moment as the Kingslayer, turned and looked at him with remote, unseeing eyes – that same distant gaze he’d worn after the dragon had destroyed their army at the Blackwater Rush. 

**

3\. 

The third time it was Brienne. 

She was in the practice yard working with some of the Northern fighters when she heard a light, mocking voice call out – “Is that a woman?” 

She knew that voice, and her heart leapt to hear it. But she also knew – and hated – that particular tone; it was the tone, more than anything else, that warned her something was off. 

There he stood, in his golden, beautiful prime, clad in his pale leather tunic, with two hands and a sardonic smile – 

He was every bit as awful as she’d imagined, but when they crossed swords – Gods, but he could fight. 

Swift, cunning, fierce and strong, he was a sublime swordsman, and it was all she could do to hold her own. But hold her ground she did, relentlessly patient, as he threw everything at her, everything he’d learned from all his teachers – he’d taught her some of those techniques already, she realized, all those mocking suggestions and new forms he’d led her through, clumsy and one-handed – 

“Where did you learn that?” he hissed, outraged, as she managed to block one of his attacks. 

She grinned fiercely. “You taught me,” she replied, enjoying his confusion. 

Finally she had to tackle him and wrestle him down to the ground, forcing him to yield to her with poor grace. 

**

4.

The fourth time it happened, Pod stumbled across a boy kneeling in the sept. The boy was dressed in battered armour and a torn and bloodied Lannister tunic, but they were summer clothes, not the heavy woolen cloaks and thick leather worn by the fighters at Winterfell. 

Pod’s footstseps echoed in the small space, and the boy turned to face him. 

He could not have been more than five and ten years old. His eyes held none of his usual mockery and arrogance; if anything, he looked – young. Bronn would call him green, and make mock of him for being young and highborn and eager; Lady Brienne would sigh and say that he needed more experience before being let out into the world. 

Pod only saw that he did not look like an oathbreaker or a kingslayer. He looked like any other young squire about to be knighted. 

**

+1

As he lay insensible in the infirmary, struggling against a tide of overwhelming weariness, Jaime became aware of a growing light in the darkness. He fought his way to consciousness, blinking his eyes open and staring at bright golden sunlight. In the distance, he could hear gulls calling and the dragging rhythm of the sea – the warm wind blowing in through the open windows tasted of salt and green grass. 

Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the doorway. Outside, he could see a practice yard, where three tow-headed children were playing and shouting, attacking each other with the clack, clack, clack of blunted tourney swords. A lazy, drawling voice called out, indulgent and full of affection, and Jaime saw – himself, his hair streaked with silver, but smiling more openly than he had since he was a boy. 

“Jaime,” a low voice said, and both he and his older self turned to see the woman emerge into the sunlight; her straw-like hair was still cropped short, her body still hulking and awkward and graceless, but no less loved for all that. 

“Even if this is no more than a dying man’s fancy,” he said, “I want to stay.”

She turned the fierce light of her blue, blue eyes on him. “You’re not dead yet,” she said. “Wake up.”

**

And so he woke.


End file.
